Living History
by Inscriber
Summary: Bart Allen's history before he came to the past to save the future. This is his story, his start. Why he fights. *Bart Centric, with Flash Fam and Invasion Team.
1. Woods

Living History

* * *

The snow was gray and thick, the slush blending with ash that coated the muddy ground. It was the same sickening color as the sky, the same muted gray that spoke nothing of the sun. He might not have recognized the difference between the two if not for the trees. Bart had been told a few stories from the past; he'd been told that trees had been beautiful once, that the sky had been a vibrant blue, and it hadn't always been cold, the weather unforgiving – he didn't believe it. The hollow brown husks with sickly bare, black limbs were evil-looking, with their bent and twisted shapes as their branches scraped at the sky. They reminded him of shriveled demons that were doomed to endure the eternal winter where they stood. They plunged their misshapen branches into the air, as if they remembered a blue sky with fluffy white clouds, and believed that they could reach into time, pulling it back towards them. Back to a time with blue skies and shining suns, back to a time when snow hadn't covered the ground everyday of every year and the horizon hadn't been a continual gray.

The inhibitor color was tight around his neck, chaffing his skin as he moved. Dirt was caked into his clothes, sweat and grime cementing the filth into place. His hair was greasy, and he could taste his rotten breath echo in his mouth, his tongue still savoring the meal he'd scavenged a few days ago. He wanted to wash away the foul taste, but his flask was low and supplies were scarce. He probably had two days of water sloshing around inside the metal container – and that was if he was conservative. He couldn't afford to do anything frivolous; water was precious, a rare commodity that he couldn't waste on simple pleasure. He would have to wait until he found a purifier, or if he were lucky a resistance group before he could refill on supplies – both of those ideas were laughable. Purifiers were Reach property, items that weren't exactly left lying about, and the Resistance? It was more likely he'd find an unpolluted river surrounded by a patch of gorgeous trees and blue skies. He pocketed the flask he'd been unconsciously twiddling pathetically in his fingers, sighing as he told himself he had to be careful. Besides, the tang of crow was still lingering on his taste buds, making him feel a bit fuller than he actually was. That was something, right?

Suddenly Bart halted, his body freezing on instinct as his ears were greeted by the unfamiliar sound of twigs breaking. _No_, Bart felt his heart rate pick up as his eyes turned into scanners and he began dissecting the scene before him, _They couldn't have found me already_.

He'd run away from his Camp a little more than two weeks ago. Two weeks he'd evaded them. Sixteen sleepless nights huddled up in trees – praying he hadn't seen, hoping he wasn't being followed, _wishing_ that he wouldn't be caught. Sixteen days of meager meals that consisted of either crow or rat. Two weeks without beatings or chores, no Blue Beetle, no crack of the whip, or searing pain as the tip would bite into him.

Sixteen days of freedom.

It couldn't have all been for nothing.

The woods appeared still to him, dead, like always. Ashen snow falling against russet colored bark that reached into a dim, unimpressive sky – no signs of life at all, save the outlines of tennis shoes he'd left behind him. Bart wished he could hide them somehow, but he had to keep moving – and carefully filling in footprints was far too time consuming. Bart knew that if he could just keep moving, he'd make it. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew enough: it was _away_. Away from the sunken faces of his fellow prisoners, away from Blue Beetle's sadistic control, away from the Camp. He just had to keep moving. But he was still halted, his body frozen as he strained his ears, listening. He listened so hard his ears rang, he could feel the blood pounding in his head, and he was getting so hot that even in the cold he could feel sweat dripping into his palms. His mouth was painfully dry, and he wished more than anything that his inhibitor color was gone. He wished he knew how to run, that the Camp enforcers hadn't locked it onto him when he was young, wished that he'd been allowed to learn to control his powers.

But he hadn't.

Bart forced a shaking breath down his throat – forcing himself to calm down. He steadied his breathing, running a quick hand though his thick, greasy, hair.

_Don't be stupid,_ he hissed to himself from the confines of his mind, _You've made it this far. You're the first person to have ever escaped a Camp. You're a survivor. _

Bart shook his head, readjusting his jacket, thankful for the thin green material despite that small holes scattered along the sleeves and pockets. He realigned his fingerless black gloves, wiping the sweat off of his palms with the wooly fabric – he would be okay. The logical part of his brain kicked in, telling him that _obviously _he would be totally moded by now if the twig _had_ been anything. At any rate, it was getting late.

The sun would go down soon, and that meant he had to find a tree. Not a lot of things lived in the woods, luckily. He'd been told that they used to be teeming with rabbits, foxes, deer, and birds, but not anymore. The only thing that lived here was the Pack. The Pack was a wild group of dogs, named because, well, they ran in a pack; wolf mixes of old pets that had been abandoned when their owners had been captured. The Pack was mean, snarling and vicious; sharp teeth, like razors, and claws that sometimes maimed the Earth. They were excellent hunters, had to be to find food in a place like this; they had powerful muscles and smell. And, as Bart had discovered on his second night in the wilderness, the Pack was hungry. He still had a claw marks tearing down his shoulder, from where he'd been pounced.

From that night on, he'd been sleeping in trees; the dogs weren't all that fond of trees. Maybe they were afraid of heights, like he'd been. Or perhaps they were lazy, and decided it was much easier to dig up a rat, vole, or vermin of some kind than it was to catch a human boy that had taken a liking to trees. Or possibly Bart had been deemed dangerous, considering the dog that'd jumped him was still nursing his snout. Good, he'd wasted an entire blade by madly slashing about, trying to rid his back of the beast all those nights ago. Whatever the case was, Bart huffed, deciding the twig snap had been the work of an early hunting trip – which meant it was time to find a tall tree and settle in for the night, and hope it snowed thick enough to cover up his prints.

* * *

The moon was peeping down at the Earth from behind the foggy clouds, and Bart was peering up at it through the cluster of tree. It might have pretty, had the howls of the Pack not been stalking the night. He'd found it was hard to fall back into the lull of sleep whenever he could hear a mutt going in for the kill. The sound of ripping fur, terrified squeaks, and claw against bone was nauseating, the sounds of blood gurgling down their throats as they swallowed – it was revolting. He couldn't help but feel bad for the creatures that were perishing, couldn't help but liken himself to them. That feeling of being hunted, of _knowing_ something bad was going to happen and being unable to stop it – that fear. He still held it in the back of his heart, was always slightly prepared to feel Beetle's big hands clasp around his torso and drag him back to Camp – or kill him. He knew he'd probably be killed if he were found at this point. Beetle would make an example out of him, a warning to anyone foolish enough to escape.

Bart frowned at the sky, his mind taking him back to time.

"_Isn't it beautiful?" she murmured, her hands gripping the wire fence as she stared off into the distance. Bart was younger, almost seven. He focused his big green eyes onto the distance, trying to discern where the dull landscape ended and pale sky began. It was hard, considering it was snowing and everything was blending together. He glanced up at Aunt Dawn, trying to figure out whatever it was she saw._

"_I don't see anything." He stated bluntly, crossing his arms in disappointment. He wished he could appreciate whatever his aunt was seeing, but all he saw was gray. Gray wire fence, gray sky, gray ground, and brownish-black trees littering the ground. Aunt Dawn looked down at him, a small smile on her face – it was a sad smile._

"_You have to look hard for it," she told him, "Past the snow and through the fog."_

"_There's nothing there," Bart replied stubbornly._

_Dawn shook her head, kneeling down to his height, the snow clumping to the worn material of her jeans, "It's always there, Bart. You can't look with your eyes to see it. You have to use your heart."_

_Use his heart to see? What did that even mean?_

"_What is it?" he asked, squinting his eyes to see out past the fence. _

"_Hope." She answered simply._

_He looked again, and this time he saw something different. He didn't see the wire fence that ran the area of the Camp, or the leaden snow or the gloomy sky. He didn't see the crippled trees or the ugly black crows._

_He saw a horizon._

Bart sighed – he missed Aunt Dawn. He missed her stories, the ones she'd whisper to him after the work day was out. She'd told him about his grandpa, the great Barry Allen – he'd been a hero, a speedster. He'd saved the world a dozen times, along with other heroes with different powers. Aunt Dawn was a walking history book, filled to the brim with knowledge that felt almost taboo to speak of. She told him about the speed he had, the reason a collar was gripped so firmly on his neck.

He yawned, feeling sleep sneak up on him again.

"_Ugh, this _itches_." Bart complained, grabbing at the collar for the umpteenth time that night. He could feel his skin tingling, but his fingers were too big to slip under the skin-tight collar and scratch at it – it was unbearable. "I don't even know why I have to _wear _it."_

_He was on his and Aunt Dawn's cot, the rough canvas material rubbing against his skin as it caught on his clothes. He could hear the other people turning and twisting in their own cots all around him in their sleep. He could feel the cool snowy breeze biting at the tips of his fingers, but the mass of people provided collective warmth, which he appreciated even though it was a nasty warmth formed from sweat and foul breath. Aunt Dawn was next to him, her thick scarf poking out from her patched-up blue jacket and tickling his nose._

_Aunt Dawn shifted to face him, keeping her voice quiet so the enforcer, Beetle, wouldn't hear them, "You know why you have it on." She murmured. It was too dark to see inside the tent they were in, but he could sense her sad little smile._

"_Because I'm fast, a Meta." Bart replied. Duh. All Metas had to wear them after the age of four, sometimes sooner if they were powerful enough. _

"_Because they are afraid of you." Dawn whispered, "They know what you are capable of." _

"_Afraid of me?" He questioned. Blue Beetle had never seemed all too bothered by his presence, didn't seem to have a problem with beating him around for the heck of it. He never looked afraid of him, and why should he? He was a scrawny little kid with only eleven years under his belt._

"_Yes," Dawn had smiled, "They know who you are, who you share blood with. They know you're dangerous, just like Jay and the Flash. Just like your father, just like your cousin."_

_Bart looked at her disbelievingly. Somehow she caught the look, even in the dark._

"_They know what you can do Bart," she whispered to him meaningfully, "Do you?"_

* * *

Morning knocked on his eyelids, trying to pry them open. Bart groaned a little, twisting as much as was safe to when balanced on a branch. His neck hurt, but he ignored it, instead enjoying the sensation of his muscles stretching and back popping. Mornings were the only thing he allowed himself to take leisure in, considering the nights were typically uncomfortable. Plus, they were the brightest parts of the day, when the sun could be vaguely seen between the ugly clouds. Mornings were special.

Before leaping from his perch, Bart glanced down on at the ground, then left and right, then the sky – his routine scan before he determined the coast was clear. Bart threw himself off his branch, the snow crushing beneath his weight. His ankles protested against the movement, but frankly Bart didn't pay all that much attention to the sting that clenched them as he hit the ground. Something always hurts when you drop a good eight feet to the ground, but it always beat getting mauled by the Pack. Besides, he could walk it off, easy. Without pausing, Bart zipped up his jacket, dipped his hand into the outer breast pocket, pulled out the flask and took two delicious gulps of water before treading on.

The snow, like always, was falling. An old lady that'd been at the Camp had told him that snow was white once. She even told him she used to run outside, catching the flakes on her tongue. That was ridiculous, he'd told her. Snow was toxic, bad for you – the pollutants in it caused people to get sick if it got in their mouths. The old woman had gotten the saddest look on her face when he'd pointed that out.

"_I know," the woman murmured, a faraway look in her eyes as she turned away from him. She coughed a few times, her whole wrinkled body thrashing with her. A sickness was going around camp, and medicine was being reserved for the young people, who stood a chance against the virus. People like him, a thirteen-year-old, not her, who looked to be in her eighties – Bart had tried to give her medicine, offering some of his, but she refused._

"_You're special, kid," she'd told him, a serious look in her eyes, "I know who you are, Allen."_

"_What?" he asked, surprised, "Why does that matter?"_

_The old lady smiled up wisely from her wheelchair, "I remember the League, boy. I can see it in you."_

"_See what?" Bart questioned, suddenly jaded and suspicious – that was his nature. Living in a Camp tended to do that to people, once they realized that survival wasn't guaranteed just because they had you where they wanted you. The Reach didn't care if a human or two died. They might have had a problem if lots of people died, like the entire Camp; but they knew that, if nothing else could be said for the race, humans were really good at surviving. Needless to say, Camps were usually an every-man-for-himself type of deal, unless you had a family that managed to survive together, or close friends – but that was rare._

_The woman had a smile even sadder than Dawn's. Her dark gray hair was twisted into a bun, and for the first time Bart took in her appearance. She must've been pretty once, before the years stole away her youth. She had dark brown eyes, almost black, and they stared into him, they ripped apart his soul as he stood in front of her. Asian decent was obvious in her features, and even though she was old, her body laced in wrinkles, it was lean – remains of an active life._

"_I see the hero in you, kid." She replied, "It was in my sister, too. I see it in your eyes – and I see that collar on your neck. You're going to do something, kid. I don't know what, but whatever it is, it will be big."_

"_Who are you?" he asked, this time with less distrust in his words, "Who's you're sister?"_

_The woman smirked, her eyes giving a gleam, "Me? No one knows me," she said in a quiet, amused voice, "But my sister was Artemis."_

_The old woman died that night, and Bart had felt…bad. She wasn't the first person to die, but it never had left an impact on him like she did. He'd found a weed-flower, and placed it where her cot had been._

_The next night, when the guards had left the tent and everyone was asleep; Bart nudged Aunt Dawn awake, and asked about his grandfather, about his father, about his cousin – all of the heroes. _

Bart sighed, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He'd been remembering things a lot since he left the Camp. He supposed he was lonely, but that wasn't quite it. He'd been lonely in the Camp, too. Ever since Aunt Dawn had been taken away two years ago, it'd just been him. Him and a sea of gaunt faces. He supposed he'd been the happiest person in the group, probably the most stable too. Which was fairly depressing, considering he wasn't happy…and it could be argued he wasn't sane either, because he had thought up a way to escape.

But he wasn't _insane_, because he had a plan. He had years of stories, knowledge of the past that Aunt Dawn had so graciously given to him. He was going to find the Resistance. He had a chance, a chance waiting just over the horizon.

Suddenly, Bart flicked a look down at his collar – the lights were glowing a deep and dark red. Fear pounded in his heart, and he jerked his head back and forth. His hands flew to his collar, trying desperately to pry it off even though he already knew tugging at it was pointless. It was an animal instinct, fueled by the desire to escape. The need to survive.

Unfortunately, his efforts proved useless, and his knees buckled as a powerful wave of electricity knocked him to the ground, his skin itching like he'd been set on fire. The current traveled though him lightning fast, and he bit his tongue as his hands collided with the ground. He tried to keep himself from toppling over, but a powerful kick landed on the side of his ribcage, knocking him into the snow. His face was instantly plowed into the ashy snow. He couldn't move anymore, the air gone from his lungs and his limbs tingling from the collar's shock.

"This has been fun," he heard the all-too familiar voice say with amusement in his voice, and a foot landed stiffly on his back, "I haven't been hunting in years. I can only imagine what it would have been like without your collar."

"Take it off and see." Bart coughed into the snow. He felt a hand pull the back of his jacket and lift him into the air.

"What was that, _ese_?" Blue Beetle laughed, pushing his face into Bart's, "The wild has made you brave? Think you're tough now?"

Bart squirmed, his shirt digging into his neck, burning his skin. Fear was mixing with anger, which was creating a dreadful sense of false bravery. He _didn't _want to go back to Camp. _He_ _had plan_. He was _so close_ to that horizon. But his limbs were still jittery from the collar's shock, and his head was burning from the blood pumping in his ears and the fear lighting up his brain. He felt sweat start to drip down him.

"L-Let me go!" he snarled pathetically, giving his legs a pitiful kick, his foot bouncing off of Beetle's torso. The laughter that rumbled in the enforcer's chest shook his whole body, and by extension, Bart's. Which hurt. A lot.

"As you wish, little one." Beetle rumbled, releasing his grip on Bart and watching him plummet to the ground. Bart hardly had a chance to catch his breath before his collar lit up again, the electricity coursing through him like fire.

And his world went dark.

* * *

**Author's Note: **I _should _be writing Illusion, so updates on this _will _be sporadic. Basically this is Bart's story, before Bloodlines. A bit of background before Chapter 2 comes out: Basically, a lot of our loved heroes are dead. These include most of the League and team. The Reach is in complete control of everything, facing little opposition from everyone but the Resistance (rag-tag survivors – unknown population, as of yet; theorized to be minimal)

Bart has lived with Aunt Dawn in Camp (basically a slave camp the Reach set up) since he was young, in the five range. Since then he lead a super crappy life. In this fic, Bart is 15.

Questions? Comments? Review?


	2. Camp

**Chapter Two: Camp**

* * *

_He buried his face into Aunt Dawn's oversized jacket, wrapping her arms around her like he'd never have to let her go. He could feel the crowd tense around him, even though the steady pace of their work never slowed – no one was brave enough to interfere, to drop their work or speak out of turn. Or perhaps they were just broken, all the fight drained from their spirit long ago – but Aunt Dawn was very much alive. He could see it in the defiance lighting her narrowed eyes, the steady calmness that made her appear intimidating, even when she faced an opponent she could never hope to take on._

"_Don't take her," Bart pleaded, hating how his voice cracked. Like it always did when his emotions ran high. His grip on her jacket tightened, and he stared directly at Blue Beetle, begging him to leave. Beetle smirked, his eyes callous as he reached giant hand towards Aunt Dawn. To take her. _

_Bart's eyes widened, fear gripping him – he'd be alone. "_Please!"_ he begged, his hands buckled onto Dawn so tightly that white tendrils slinked down his knuckles. He could feel his aunt stiffen beneath his grip out of worry for him – rare though it was, disobedience was not tolerated. It was dangerous for Dawn to speak out, but when it came right down to it, she was merely a human – she wasn't a threat to the Reach. Bart, on the other hand, wore a collar. He was a Meta. A threat._

_Aunt Dawn's expression was torn, as if it hadn't decided whether to snarl at Beetle or comfort Bart – it created an ugly mix of confusion on her face. Her arms laced themselves comfortingly around her nephew's shoulders, and then threw a hateful look at Beetle before holding up her index finger, directing him to give her a minute; it was a stupid move, but Beetle looked more entertained than angry. As if Dawn were an insignificant speck screaming at a giant – which wasn't all that inaccurate. He held back, and Bart stiffened – Beetle only did that when there was a show to watch. _

_Reluctantly, he peered up into his aunt's face. Her small smile had returned, if only to reassure him. Her big eyes were warm. She knelt down onto one knee, evening herself to Bart's eye-level. He took her in, all of her. Her auburn hair was soft, and the waves of golden-brown strands danced across her forehead, barely covering her eyes. Little gray snowflakes were nestled into her oversized clothes, bulky against her slender frame. Aunt Dawn was beautiful, even with the bags beneath her eyes and the broken happiness on her face. She smelled like pine needles, sweat, and hay, like she always did. She looked just the same as always. Like this was any other day. Like she wasn't going to leave him._

"_I have to go, Bart."_

_No one heard the scream that he felt rattle in his heart._

_He shook his head, feeling his eyes burn as a tear leaked out against his will, "No, no – I mean, you're all I have. You can't leave me alone." Panic swelled inside of him – his fingers buried themselves even deeper into her worn clothes. He felt his cheeks burn, fought against tears that stung his eyes as he held them back._

_Aunt Dawn did something he'd never see her do – she started to cry. Tears built up under her thick lashes, and even though she didn't sob or sniffle, tears drenched her skin. However, the smile was still there. He'd never seen a smile that could withstand utter sadness before. For an awful moment, he wished for something that Aunt Dawn would have found distasteful – he wished the scientists were moving someone else. If only so he could keep her close. Because it hurt so bad to be alone._

"_Oh, Bart," she reassured, pulling him into her embrace, "I will never leave you. I may not be here physically, but I can stay in your heart. I know you'll stay in mine."_

"_Stop it!" Bart wanted to yell, wanted to grab her shoulders and stare into her eyes, "Stop talking like that makes a difference!" he wanted to scream. He couldn't focus, all the emotion overwhelming his common sense and sending the world out of focus, to the point where only he and Aunt Dawn existed._

"_I want you _here_, not my _heart_!" he shouted. Couldn't she understand? Why couldn't she _understand_?_

_He was cut off by the sudden hug, Aunt Dawn's embrace surrounding him – he settled down slowly, and she ran her hand through his hair._

"_I've watched you grow up," she soothed, calming his ragged breathing as he fought off the temptation to cry, "And you've become so much like your father, like you grandfather. They would be so proud of you." She hummed, and Bart returned her hug, his arms enfolding her tightly, "I love you so much, and know that you'll do great things."_

"_That's enough!" Beetle hissed, yanking Aunt Dawn's scarf harshly, pulling her away from him, out of his grip. She coughed as she fell backwards into Beetle's awaiting hold, his immense and powerful hand latching onto her upper arm tightly. She bit her lip in suppressed pain, and Bart felt anger claim him. Beetle caught the fire in his eyes and sneered._

"_Aunt Dawn!"_

"_Get back to work," he ordered, turning away and dragging Aunt Dawn back with him before he handed her off into the greedy hands of a Reach scientist who'd been watching the scene unfold in silence. Without even pausing he shoved Dawn into an awaiting pod. Like she was nothing. Like she was insignificant. As if she didn't matter._

_The world seemed so surreal at that moment, with all the workers shuffling about like nothing was happening. They didn't seem to notice that his aunt had just been shoved into a pod, or care that that pod was being wheeled into airship. They didn't seem to pay any attention to him as they stepped around him, didn't bother to take a moment and realize that his heart had just been broken. Shattered. _

_Bart stared numbly at the sight, his knees buckling beneath him as he realized he was completely alone. The only person he'd ever loved, the only one who'd ever cared for him, was gone. He might have stayed like that forever, but a heavy hand slapped him upside the head, jarring him out of his trance. He blinked, his head swiveling until he was greeted by Blue Beetle's unfeeling gaze._

"_I said get back to work."_

Bart wiped at tears that weren't there as he pushed back the memory. It still hurt after two years of replaying it over and over in his mind. He didn't know why he'd been waiting for an uprising. He always expected, even in his memories, for the crowd to wake up. To fight and demand freedom. To save Aunt Dawn. So often he imagined himself launching both of his fists into the scientists face, or somehow felling Beetle and ripping Aunt Dawn from out of his grip. But he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't do anything but obey, stagger to his feet, and go off to finish his chores.

The tent was frigid and unwelcome, icy wind seeping past the burlap walls. Longstanding darkness drenched the room, though the scent of morning hung warningly in the air and told Bart that the sun would rise soon. Bart was on the ground, the cold dirt compact and dry, except for a few unexplainable patches of mud; hay littered the floor in clumps, tangling into his mussed brown hair and irritating his eyes. He never thought he'd miss the cot he'd shared with his aunt, with its rough canvas material that felt stiff as a plank of wood, and the metal ridges that poked out where the cloth had been worn down – but he did. He missed the ability to press his face flat against the burlap fabric and breathe in the remains of Dawn's scent, the faint whiff he'd catch of it at nights, the faded aroma that would sometimes make the difference between a fitful sleep or a night of unrest. But his cot had been confiscated, leaving him alone in the dark. Completely alone.

He'd woken up a while ago, and it'd taken him a few minutes to figure out why he wasn't in a tree, why he didn't smell the crisp fragrance of dead trees and Pack leftovers, why he couldn't see the sky – and then it'd hit him. He'd remembered his confrontation with Beetle, remembered pain overwhelming his desire to escape, remembered hitting the ashen snow before his senses had gone numb, recalled the world fading into darkness as he'd succumbed to unforgiving unconsciousness.

Bart didn't stir as he stared up at the tent's ceiling, didn't bother to check out his surroundings or assess the damage to his body. He didn't know how long it'd been since Blue Beetle had captured him, how many days he'd been prisoner. It didn't matter. He never wanted to move again. Or think. Or feel.

He'd been so close _– so close_. The horizon had been at his fingertips, the future within his grasp – and he'd watched freedom slip through his fingers. Disappointment didn't even begin to describe it. He'd been beyond the omnipresent chain-link fence, had tasted liberty, had escaped – all so he could be found. So he could be hunted. So he could be dragged back to camp by his tormentor. He'd been foolish to allow himself to nurse the dream of escape, and now his fate rested firmly in the hands of his Camp's enforcer.

Bart blinked as the light subtly changed inside the tent, and he heard the crows start to caw. It was morning. Around him he heard people starting to shift around in their cots, and he could imagine them all steadily going about their business, readjusting their clothes and heading off the Work Zone, shuffling dutifully past his tent. Like sheep.

He heard a rustling noise, and someone enter the tent – he turned his head instantly to get a view of who it was, and was surprised to find just how much that hurt. He didn't let it show on his face though as he peered at the entrance.

It was Doctor. Doctor was the only human in camp who knew anything remotely linked to medicine. He didn't know much, but he knew simple things, important things. He'd been training to be a first responder when the Reach invaded, and everyone was grateful to him whenever he patched them up with a spool and sewing needle he kept on him, along with cloth bits for gaping wounds. He did the best he could with what he had. He was always good for a joke, and even had a few smile-lines worn onto his face. It was really unfortunate he had to report to Beetle, or he might have had a lot of friends.

"I see you're awake," Doctor stated, kneeling down beside him so Bart could stop extending his neck, "Though I'm a bit surprised you haven't move. Is it the pain?"

Bart blinked, looking straight up at Doctor, "No." Physical pain meant nothing anymore.

"I see," Doc smiled, pushing some of his graying brown hair out of his eyes before his face hardened, "I heard you escaped."

Bart didn't react, letting nothing show on his face – this could be a trick, some sort of test, "Yeah."

"You're in hot water, I think," he continued, "They won't let me patch you up. There's not much wrong though, minor scrapes and bruises here or there. The only thing that has me worried is I think one of your ribs is bruised."

"Beetle kicked me, I think." Bart frowned, trying to remember – the details were kind of foggy, his mind had been going fuzzy with all the electricity passing though his body.

Doc's face went grim, "That would do it," he murmured before he sighed, putting a careful hand on Bart's shoulder, "You did something really stupid, kid. Something monumentally stupid. But very brave."

"I guess." Bart muttered. Being brave wasn't going to save him.

Doc's face was always haunted by the ghost of the jokester he must've been, but it slipped away from his face for a moment and his voice dropped a few octaves, "You're a legend, kid. You did something that no one thought was possible. You may have gotten caught, but you proved the Reach still has flaws. You've brought hope into this Camp, something I haven't seen since I was first put in here. And that's pretty darn monumental."

"T-Thanks." Bart murmured – he wasn't used to praise. Especially from someone who was being monitored by the Reach. If someone heard…consequences would be severe. Probably not lethal, because none of the Reach wanted to deal with sick and injured humans, but severe.

"Welcome. Now forgive me, but Beetle is waiting outside. You've been out for two days, and he's getting a bit…frustrated."

Bart frowned, "Oh."

Doctor nodded, a small twitch of the lip, "I would tell you to be careful, but since you're not so hot at that, I'll just tell you good luck."

Bart forced up a pathetic smile at him from the floor, "I'll take all I can get."

* * *

Blue Beetle had always been a daunting figure to Bart. The enforcer was close to being over seven feet tall with a filled out form; his yellow eyes were cold and calculating, robotic and cruel – a human iris could be seen beneath the yellow plated glass, but Bart had never seen it blink. He'd never seen an emotion fuel them or give them life – except hatred and anger. Beetle was scary – strong and dangerous, with a voice that shook the earth and dug into your soul. He wasn't afraid to exert his dominance, to punish the slightest sign of rebellion, to crush it out of you. Once, Bart had seen him shoot an old man. Just like that. Because he had stopped working.

"_Meat has an expiration date,"_ Beetle had hissed before turning his eyes on Bart, _"Even you."_

Bart hadn't noticed the chain around his foot until Doctor had left and he'd tried to move. It was heavy and cold, clasped around his ankle so tightly it felt like circulation had stopped. He knew it was stupid to have assumed he'd been left unguarded and unrestrained in a tent, but he hadn't been thinking things through. Bart wheezed sitting up, though the pant quickly evolved into a gasp as his ribs protested at the movement. He flung his arms tight around his chest as if to give himself a hug, his eyes screwing themselves shut as he continued to push himself into at least a standing position – Blue Beetle liked to see his victims beaten. Bart had promised himself that Beetle would never see him broken – even if Bart felt like he was. That was the only drive to get up, and he heaved as he managed to shove himself into position where his legs were bent at the knee and his upper body was lazily lumped over them. It was sore and pathetic, but it was an accomplishment when compared to being sprawled out on the ground.

His whole body ached from the effort, every muscle seeming to remember he was alive and eager to alert him of every single injury he'd sustained from the moment he'd escaped the camp from the instant he'd been dragged inside. The shoulder that'd been chewed was aching, the teeth indentions each feeling like tiny thorns were dipping into his skin, and minor cuts and scrapes were stinging like Doc had dripped sanitizer into his wounds – which he probably did to prevent infection. All of those things were permissible though, he could've pushed them into the back of his mind with ease if it hadn't been for the _pain_ in his chest. That _hurt_, like someone had been beating his side with a hammer. Bart unintentionally clutched it again, wincing in pain at the slightest finger-brush of the area. For a second he was glad that his shirt was thrown over his sore spot – Beetle wouldn't spot it and take advantage of it if he didn't already know about the damage he'd inflicted.

Bart started to try and move himself to a stand, but just as he regained the will to move again, the tent shook and the walls came down as Beetle ripped the entire canvas off the poles supporting it. The daylight hit Bart hard even though the sun couldn't be seen through the clouds, forcing his eyes to slam shut as light danced behind his eyelids.

"Take a look," Beetle was saying, and Bart pried his eyes open carefully and slowly, getting the sense the enforcer wasn't speaking to him – he wasn't. His vision returned and Bart could see the most of the camp gathered around, scattered in clumps forming a loose oval around the numerous tents. He recognized the faces, the people who had played backdrop to his childhood – masks of faces filled with pain and shame, all numb and gaunt, devoid of expression. Thin bodies bundled up in worn out clothes and windblown hair that was clumped with knots, dirt, and sometimes bugs. All of them staring at him, as they'd been instructed. He could see the recognition in their eyes, could see the life behind the dead-tone stares. He was the boy that'd run away. He was the boy who'd escaped.

He was the boy who would probably need to be buried soon.

Bart swallowed hard, his hands flying to his collar as he tried to scratch at his burning neck – it always did that when he was embarrassed. Or nervous, uncomfortable. He could feel sweat and worry nibble at him as he swiveled his head around to eye everyone before his gaze landed on Blue Beetle, who was smirking at him.

"This boy," Beetle hissed, his hulking figure taking a step out of the crowd, towards Bart's immobilized figure, "This _foolish_ boy thought he could escape."

The crowd waited, blank, except a few who showed fear plain on their faces. A little girl was crying, somewhere at the back of the crowd.

Bart bit his lip, his heart thumping in his chest, as he watched Beetle take another step towards him – death. Death was coming to claim him, and not a soul in Camp would oppose him. Bart could feel his eyes widen, could feel the slimy hand of fear reaching into his soul – he was going to die. He would die surrounded by people, completely alone. Was this how Aunt Dawn had felt? How could she have remained so defiant? Breathing was becoming hard as nerves broke into Bart's logical thinking, and it was all he could do to force himself to not appear panicked.

"Look at him now," Beetle shouted, loud enough the whole Camp could here, even those out in the Work Zone. The crowd stiffened as Beetle lost the slow advance and marched up to Bart, taking his armor laced boot and pressing Bart to the ground. His body gave and Bart crumpled without much protest, gasping as the sudden movements jostled his bruised rib. A few tears of pain swelled out of his eyes and ran down his dirt-covered face.

Beetle smirked, "Look at the _legend_. He's _broken_," he hissed, taking the same floor and jolting Bart once again with the tip of his foot, seeming pleased with the pitiful hiss that made it out of Bart's mouth, "He's _weak_." Beetle jeered, turning his eyes to examine the crowd.

The crowd's eyes fell to their shoes, save few who watched on with stony faces, unimpressed by displays like these anymore. They'd become desensitized to such examples of cruelty.

Bart coughed as he curled up in on himself, having a moment where Beetle wasn't eyeing him – he'd felt broken inside the tent, numb. But seeing those detached faces had lit a fire in him again, had reminded him of Aunt Dawn. Of her fight. He couldn't turn into one of them, couldn't let himself lose the gift Aunt Dawn had given him that day she'd stared out the fence and showed him the horizon: he couldn't lose that hope.

Bart ignored his sides' objection as he pushed himself up onto his shaky arms, both wobbling under his weight. Concentrating exclusively on standing, he staggered to his feet, giving no attention to the pain that bit at him. It may not have mattered, but seeing the people in his Camp so broken had made him angry, given him something to prove. Bart glared at Beetle defiantly, trying to mimic the same ferocious gaze Dawn had summoned up when she'd been taken.

He thought about Doctor's parting words, telling him to be careful.

Careful was for people who weren't going to die.

"Beetle," Bart was surprised at how loud his voice was, pleased by how defiant his tone sounded, "I'm _not_ weak."

Beetle turned instantly, his eyes zeroed in on Bart.

"I lived in the woods, lived off of a water canteen and hunted my own food for sixteen days – I evaded _you_ for sixteen days. I _escaped_." Bart announced, sweeping his eyes to every person in the gathering. They stared at him in shock, and he caught multiple expression of disbelief, doubt, and even a few small flickers of admiration. Tiny sparks, but at least they were there.

Before he could continue to search the crowd, he felt Beetle's fist wrap around the front of his shirt and hoist him into the air.

"You were caught," Beetle's voice had dropped to an octave that rattled the earth and reverberated in Bart's bones, his eyes hard and punishing, a harsh smile forming, "And I'm going to make you wish you hadn't been." Beetle turned to the crowd, "Meat," he addressed them, "This is not bravery, this is stupidity. You think he's a hero? He's nothing. _Nothing_."

Beetle turned his face back to him, his eyes greedy and sardonic as he tapped his collar, "But the Reach can find a purpose for even the most useless of Metas."

Bart's throat went dry – the Labs. Beetle was going to ship him to the scientists.


	3. Labs

**Chapter 3: Labs**

* * *

The smell was the first thing he noticed as he cracked open his eyes, his nostrils flaring in disgust as he caught the scent of his sweat-stained clothes and his greasy hair – his eyes started to water from the power of the aroma as it mingled with the cold air that also irritated his senses. Coughing, Bart tried to roll over, but pain erupted from his ankle, the metal shackle holding his leg in place and forbidding swift movement. Quickly flopping back over to realign his ankle, he slowly shoved himself upwards into a sitting position, his whole body fuzzy from both discomfort and exhaustion. He could feel the bags under his eyes and the snot dried under his nose – sleeping on the snowy ground without either a tent or a cot had left him vulnerable to the weather overnight. Realizing he'd survived being left out in the elements, Bart lifted his hands, examining each finger, testing them by trying to bend them. His movements were numb and blockish, but despite the initial resistance, he smiled slightly when he discovered his hands had fared well with his scrappy gloves providing some warmth. His skin was pale though, with cracked lips, blue fingertips, and flushed cheeks. He definitely wasn't in good shape.

Beetle had left him bolted in the middle of camp, where he'd made his speech – Bart cringed as memory swept over him, forcing him to relive the enforcer's ultimate unveiling, his final conclusion – that wicked smear of a grin that'd coated Blue Beetle's face as he so readily announced where Bart would be going – The Labs.

The Labs were legendary. Countless horror stories filtered themselves around camp, scaring younger children so they wouldn't step out of line and providing a warning to the adults. It wasn't a fact how many were true and how many were just glorified myths, but they all painted a daunting picture of the Labs. From every story Bart had heard, scientists from the Reach experimented on humans, injecting them with diseases and medicines, using them like lab rats. One story suggested that they took samples from every camp, and the least productive human strains were…terminated. Most stories had an array of horrible layers, but most of them had a common theme – no one ever came back.

Absentmindedly, Bart tugged on his collar – as much mystery as there was in the human department, the fate that happened across Metas was even more secret, the details even scarcer than warmth. Sighing, Bart wrapped his arms around himself, enclosing himself in a forced hug as he listened to the camp live and breathe around him, the Work Zone alive somewhere behind the numerous tents that surrounded him.

_ The Work Zone was located at the edge of camp, behind the tents. Piles of scrap from the war scattered the ground meaninglessly; that's where the job came in. The purpose of the work was to be long and unrewarding, which it was; find and sort useful leftovers from the wreckage. It was like trying to find a needle in a haystack, as Aunt Dawn had commented once._

_The dark veil of night coated the Camp, and Bart eyed the fence. He could hear the electric current running through it, his uneven breaths keeping a ragged beat with the disembodied hum. A dim searchlight passed over the Camp's ground, its beam falling unevenly over the tents and pooling lazily over the ground – he was working the night as punishment for breaking curfew a few weeks ago; he could feel dirt infusing with the tips of his nails. The hard ground was stiff beneath his outdated boots, the trodden snow huffing from his movements. The Work Zone was the emptiest Bart had ever seen it, only a few souls toiling over their loads, others who had been deemed in need of penalty; he didn't recognize them, their forms too far away to make out as they hovered over their own sorting piles. _

_ Bart pressed his lips tightly together into a thin line. Doubt flickered in his soul, but Bart shook his head, as though he could rid the emotion from his body. Excitement lit him, dimming his uncertainty as Bart threw a look over his shoulder before ducking into the darkest shadows of the night – he had exactly one night to change his life._

_With a shaky breath Bart slipped deeper into the Work Zone and abandoned his post, gliding along the fence line until he reached the edge of the zone – no one came here, and his tracks were the freshest addition to the untouched ground. Barren as the rest of the Work Zone was, the outskirts seemed desolate in comparison. The place was dark and cold and empty. Not even the prominent hold of the searchlight lingered long in this place – the scent of death was strong in the air as Bart crept closer to the ends of the Work Zone, the place many referred to as simply the Edge. The name was ominous and final, which was fitting – this place was home to the dead, a place with hundreds of makeshift graves sticking up and out of the dirt. This was the Camp's graveyard._

_ Even Bart, who'd grown up his whole life with the factor of death, who had himself been witness to its unkind hand, flinched at the sight of the Edge – the sight of hundreds of little graves, marked only with makeshift tombstones, little stick crosses that served as a marker as an occupied grave. Uneven ground was marred by shovel and unpacked dirt that had never been set and left telling piles of frozen mud, an occasional view of rotting skin popping up from below the surface where some workers had left unfinished labor in favor of finishing their own work. It was unnerving to see all of the small crosses rising from the ground, their small forms eerie in the pale of the night and casting threatening shadows across the earth. Bart didn't believe the rumors or stories that buzzed through camp and kept little children from wandering beyond the Work Zone – he didn't believe the tales that spoke of how the dead would moan and weep in the still of the night, didn't trust the stories of them rising from their shallow graves and dragging their victims below the hungry earth. Yet, he held his breath as he carefully made his way through with soft footfalls, not daring to disturb a single grave as he crept pas the area – he kept his eyes locked on the horizon, locking on to the fence, his mind remembering an old weak spot he'd found on the night he'd helped burry some poor old guy who hadn't survived a kind of lung cancer Doctor hadn't been able to cure with needle or thread. That's been a few weeks ago, but Bart crossed his fingers, whispering a few words of plea under his breath in silent prayer, begging whatever entity could hear him that the small hole he'd seen hadn't been patched up._

_ His freedom depended on it._

Bart was shaken from his reverie as he saw Blue Beetle approaching him – Bart's throat went dry when he saw the scientist moving in step with his enforcer, a strange language escaping his mouth with a cold and monotonous tone. Panic seized his body, his mind freezing as the reality of what was happening hit him – this was happening. This was happening. He wasn't going to escape. That scientist, with his pale yellow eyes, blue tinged skin and superior smirk, was going to take him away. He was going to take Bart just like they'd taken Aunt Dawn –was this how she'd felt? Trapped, powerless and small? Had she been this scared? Had she been so paralyzed? How had she hidden that behind her defiance? Where had she gotten that strength?

Bart felt his body begin to shake against his will, and suddenly his skin itched and tingled – he felt claustrophobic, felt a desire to simply _not be there_. To be _gone_, to be _anywhere_ else but where he was. It was overwhelming, his own emotions cruel as Beetle and the scientist stood to stand in front of him, the scientist's eyes analytical as they studied Bart callously. Bart wanted to snarl or growl out a few words of hatred, but fear held firm to his tongue, the wrath from yesterday giving way to dread. Instead he shifted his glance from Beetle to the scientist, taking in Beetle's look of content vengeance and then switching to the scientists expression of mild interest, like he'd been given some strange puzzle and intended on cracking it open for its answers.

Bart cringed as the scientist pointed to him as he turned to Beetle, asking the enforcer a question Bart couldn't understand. Frustration nipped at him, but he held himself still, feeling sweat start to drip down his back, his ankle starting to throb from pain as he felt his heart beat faster inside of him.

Beetle replied in the same grotesque tongue, and the two stood there, discussing him – Bart ground his teeth. He couldn't understand a word of it, but he could piece a few things together. The scientist was asking questions about him, and Beetle was dishing out answers – answers that could possibly kill him. They could be discussing his fate right now, and there was nothing he could do.

Beetle turned to him suddenly, his eyes cold, "Get up. You are done here."

"W-What?" Bart stuttered – this was happening to fast. His heart started thudding loudly in his ears.

"Don't be stupid – Get. Up." Beetle growled, his arm unfolding a small gun and frying off Bart's shackle. The metal stung as it transformed from brutally cold to viciously hot and burst apart, but Bart hardly registered the pain through his anxiety. Numbly he got to his feet.

"P-Please. Please," He stammered, flinging his eyes first at Beetle and then at the scientist, "Don't take me. Please. I don't want to die."

He was going to die. He was going to die. _He was going to die_.

Bart felt his tone shake, felt his body quiver as the impact of what was going on gripped him again. He didn't want to die. He didn't want to be cut open, didn't want to be tested, didn't want to be taken by the people that had stolen Dawn away from him. He had a horizon to see. For Dawn. For that old woman who no one knew. For that old man who'd been shot because he couldn't work. For Doctor. For all of the people in camp who would never know anything but the limits of the fence. For himself. He couldn't _die_. But he was going to. He was going to.

Beetle's big armored hands grabbed him, causing him to yell out unintentionally.

"This one is a trouble maker," Beetle hissed to the scientist beside him, who was watching the display with curiosity, like Bart was some animal to be studied.

"Put the specimen in the pod," The scientist responded.

Bart felt something in him shut off, felt something in him come undone. He started going wild, kicking and screaming at Beetle, ignoring the blood that started to run from his knuckles as his hands collided with Beetle's armor. Ignoring the pain exploding from him as the color went on and electricity started to tear into his veins. He thrashed in the enforcer's grip, lashing out and somehow striking the scientist in with a random kick, his worn boots digging into the alien's face. He kept going, trying to writhe out of Beetle's grip. Sheer panic wreaked chaos in his brain, making him numb as Beetle roared in anger and squeezed him, his bulky hands hitting his sore rib and eliciting a sickening wheeze from him. He felt the energy melt out of him, and he weakly trembled in Beetle's grip.

_ Bart let go of a breath he hadn't noticed himself hold as he went to the weak spot in the Edge's fence and found the hole burrowed under the fence. It was small and unwelcome, probably an abandoned grave where a body had been too large to fit – but it was there. Bart bit his lip, not remembering the divot so close to the fence line._ He could hear the hum of electricity play off the fence – he'd have to dig under.

_Without further hesitation, Bart started digging to freedom, his hands scraping up handfuls of hardened earth until the hole extended a little ways past the fence, barely big enough for him to squeeze through. He didn't even pause to glance behind him as he started to burrow through the hole, feeling the electricity rip through him. His muscles went into a spasm and tingling burned him, but he kept moving until he felt himself slip completely to the other side._

_Bart stood up, brushing the dirt from his mud-caked pants as he looked out over the night-covered landscape – he was on the other side of the fence. Nothing between him and the horizon._

_Bart laughed. He genuinely laughed as he started to run into the distance, leaving the camp behind, putting more distance between him and Beetle with every step he took. Happiness took hold of him, and suddenly the overwhelming depression of the Camp released him, a tremendous burden lifted from his shoulders. _

"_Freedom," Bart whispered to himself as he entered the tree line. The word felt good on his lips._

_He was free. _

* * *

The scientist opened the pod that'd been rolled up to the side, and Beetle angrily pushed Bart inside. Before he could move the glass shut over his face.

"NO!" Bart screamed, "_No!"_

His fists pounded meaninglessly against the pods unbreakable glass as he felt a sedative gas pump through the pod's air filters.

* * *

**Author's Note: OOOH, look at all the kind reviews! These have made my day! Thank you soo much!**


	4. Tests

**Chapter Four: Tests**

* * *

Bart took a heavy breath that filled his chest, pressing his thin body against the frame of the pod; the tight space pressed around him, the thin air making him claustrophobic. A small orange-tinted plate of glass hung in front of his face, the tip of his nose brushing against it; it gave him a small window into the world outside the thin reinforced confines of the pod. Even though his warm and humid breath fogged up the glass, he could make out the room it he was in.

Bart had spent his whole life surrounded by filth; dirt was caked into his skin, sweat was seared into his hair, and a permanent stench was sealed into the fibers of his clothes – everyone at the camp had been like that; bathing was infrequent, and whatever washing was done was typically uninspiring. Even the tents were filthy, grubby with dirt floors and odor-stained fabric. He was used to discolored cloth and muddied clothes, accustomed to the sensation of grime baked underneath his nails and into his skin, familiar with greasy hair and unpleasant smells. He'd been unprepared for the force white that hit him – for a moment all he'd been able to take in was a bright light that gleamed from a ceiling above him, attacking his eyes with vengeance as they peered down at him, their electric glow burning with indifference. Once his eyes cleared and the room came to focus, Bart's jaw had dropped slightly as he analyzed the room in awestricken horror.

The room was sterile and white. The walls were white, the floor was white, the machines were white, the ceiling was white – it hurt to look at all of it, and a wave of nausea swept him up, turning his stomach as he continued to pursue the room his eyes. He noticed with a brief relief that the walls were not completely white, and a single orange stripe hung midway up the border of the entire room. A few pieces of machinery were orange too, along with the tinting of his pod. The stark contradiction of the colors was the only thing that seemed out of place; everything felt as though it had an order to it, from the way the empty pods, similar to his, were lined up neatly against the wall, to the way the horrifically dainty tools were left out on a table near him, their sharp curved blades lined up in increasing order until reaching a scalpel that was as haunting as it was elegant. Bart wanted to vomit as he imagined the pointed tip of it making an incision in his skin; he held it in, his stomach seeming to remember it was empty.

He'd been awake for a while, but he hadn't really allowed himself to dwell in his thoughts. He'd kept his thoughts empty, studying the room and the insides of his pod rather than contemplating his life – what remained of it. He didn't want to think about Aunt Dawn anymore, or the stupid horizon. He didn't want to think of happiness or hope. It was so unfair to himself, to let those emotions creep inside of him before allowing reality to rip them away. How many times would he have to be beaten down before he broke? How many dreams would he have to lose in order to simply become numb to disappointment? He'd rebuilt himself so many times, becoming more and more broken every time he did; and for what? _For what?_ It hadn't worked for Dawn, and he'd been a fool to believe it would work for him. Before he might have spent his time looking for an escape, but not now. Bart was done with hope because, when you got right down to the ugly truth – he was dead. Not literally, but close enough. He was in the Labs. _The Labs_. The Camp was inescapable but permanent whereas the Labs were escapable, but only by death. There was no doubt in his mind he'd get out, but he would leave in a body bag.

Bart sighed, leaning his head against the glass, pulling himself out of his mind – that was why he hadn't wanted to linger in his own thoughts, why it was so much less painful to register the obvious things. The bleak reality of his situation was too miserable, and he'd had enough it. Besides, those thoughts led him to Dawn, and it hurt too much to think of her right now. Yet, that's the only person he wanted at the moment. He wanted to hold her hand, to tell her he'd made it. He wanted to tell her about the world that waited beyond the fence of the Camp, to tell her about the hope he'd seen in the faces of the crowd when he'd announced his escape with pride in his voice. He wanted to listen to her voice, wanted to see her small little smile, wanted her to sweep him up in big, worn, wooly coat and hug him until he couldn't breathe. He wanted her to tell him it'd be okay.

Why did he do this to himself? He sniffed, blinking away the wet in his eyes and clearing his throat, some spittle hitting the glass. He couldn't _think_ about that stuff. He just couldn't. The more he thought about it the more it hurt, the more he felt his heart twist and his soul break a little more; something neither his soul or his heart could do any longer if he could ever hope to rebuild the pieces. Bart sunk his teeth into his lip, letting the pain sweep over him while he shut his eyes, letting his mind go blank and his feelings shut down as the world faded away from him for a second, displacing himself from everything.

Just when Bart had managed to isolate himself from thinking, he sensed movement outside his pod, along with the undistinguishable voices that spoke in a strange dialect made mostly of clicks and garbled noises – the language of the Reach. His forehead was already pressed against the glass, so he only had to open his eyes and peer from under his greased hair to see the faces of two Reach scientists. One was blueish-green with gray eyes, his face a strange lime color that was rather nasty, like the color of dried snot. The other looked to be female. She was taller with stale purple skin and orange-gray eyes that examined him from under a visor that was attached to a strange piece of headgear hanging from her forehead. In his mind he named the male Mucus and the girl Cyclops.

Cyclops had a clipboard in her hand, a writing utensil in toe as she occasionally jotted something down while Mucus pointed at him with his long blue-green finger and stared at him with his beady gray eyes. Bart snarled at both of them, letting hatred spill into his brown eyes; he wanted them to see how much he despised them, how much he truly and utterly hated everything about them. They had ruined _everything_; they were responsible for the Camps, for the War, for the deaths of his father, grandfather, and his cousin. They'd destroyed so many lives, and now they were there for his. Fine. They could have it; it wasn't worth much now anyway, but he wouldn't make it easy for them, and he wanted them to know.

He caught the eye of Mucus, but the alien looked thoroughly unimpressed, and Bart watched the two turn and head over to a computer that was directly across the room, interrupting the neat line of pods. He watched Cyclops bring up a screen that had numerous stats scrolling across the page. Bart couldn't read the language any better than he could speak it, but he was fairly confident that they were reading up on him.

Out of habit, Bart reached up to touch his collar – he gasped as his fingers pressed against skin. Bart stiffened – the collar was off. _The collar was off_. But…he didn't _feel_ any faster. Bart blinked a few times, thinking – maybe the pod had some kind thing block his powers, like the collar did. But…what would this mean? Why would they take it off? Suddenly it hit Bart and he felt disgust as he realized that they probably needed the collar off if they were going to run tests on him. After all, that was the purpose of holding a Meta.

Mucus was tapping on the glass, somehow crossing the room while Bart had been absorbed with the discovery of his missing collar. Without warning, the glass shifted, going down to where there was nothing between Bart and the outside air – it smelled of chemicals and anticipant. He wrinkled is nose and coughed.

"Specimen C-5834," Mucus addressed him, and Bart's eyes widened as he realized Mucus had spoken in English.

"English?" Bart breathed, his hatred momentarily melting away in the face of shock. Mucus narrowed his eyes.

"English is a simple language, as are all human dialects. I know twenty-seven different Earth tongues, and three from my own planet." Mucus replied sternly, sounding offended. Bart couldn't have cared less though, how his words affected the feelings of his murderers. When he didn't say anything, Mucus huffed.

"The pod you are in contains neutralizers, meaning that as long as you are contained within the pod , you have no use of your abilities. Whenever you are out of your pod, you will either be in a testing center under strict surveillance or wearing your collar to and from the testing center. Because Metas containing enhanced speed are rare, you will be studied and your results will be compared with the two other files we have in our system. If you show any deviations, you will be dissected. If you do not, samples of your DNA will be taken and you will be terminated."

Bart nodded; he hadn't expected to make it out anyway.

"Why tell me?" Bart asked, one of his eyebrows cocking. The Reach weren't known for being chatty, and that made him suspicious.

"We told the two other humans with enhanced speeds of their fate; this is experiment control. Now," Mucus concluded, pulling out a collar and snapping it around Bart's neck, "The experiments begin."

Cyclops typed a command on the computer the pod walls slid down, Bart catching himself before he fell to the floor. He wobbled a bit and then took a heavy breath, stepping off the pedestal and onto the floor. From behind him, a sharp staff prodded him. Bart whirled his head around instantly, and Mucus was behind him, seeming to have pulled the weapon from out of nowhere.

"Follow her," he ordered, and Bart fell in step behind Cyclops as she marched him out of the holding room.

* * *

Bart tugged at his new collar – it was thinner than his old one, sleek and strong. It felt more secure than his previous one, newer and more resilient. He didn't like it. It was a prison, he knew, a cage that'd been upgraded. Really, though, it didn't make a difference. He still couldn't break out, couldn't change his fate. He sighed – he'd failed Dawn. He could feel the hope inside of him give out – a small piece of him, the last part of Dawn's optimism and faith, died right there. However, he wasn't quite like those in Camp. He wasn't empty or gone, lost. He was filled to the brim with anger, defiance. He wouldn't escape, but he would do something. Bart didn't know what, but as he stared at Cyclops's back while he followed her to the testing center, he felt rage bubble in his veins and he knew that whatever he did, they would remember him. He would give them a reason to hate him just as much as he despised them.

They arrived at a door, and Cyclops moved aside, quickly pressing her hand against a scanner. The door split into, each side merging with the walls like goo. Bart coked an eyebrow in surprise – he knew that the Reach had some pretty advanced tech, but it was hard to remember that when you were used to burlap tents and mediocre medicine. Bart hardly had time to think about that though because just as the door oozed open, Mucus's staff prodded his back, pushing him inside.

The inside was rather sparse, something that shocked him. He'd been expecting…well, something more impressive. He'd predicted a more sinister scene, a picture that more accurately mirrored the stories that floated around the camp – torture chambers and ugly weapons, bulky guards and disembodied screams. The room wasn't anything like that, which made it all the more disconcerting. It was extremely similar to the room his pod had been in – sterile and unwelcoming. However, it was only large enough for half as many pods, a few pieces of strange equipment he didn't he didn't quite recognize, and a computer that looked exactly like the one he'd seen Cyclops use. Bart felt a sense of foreboding come over him like a veil as the door spilled closed behind him.

Before he could move, he felt Cyclops grab his arm and slip a needle into his skin. She was stronger than her frail fingers and slim frame gave her credit for, and she held him in place even as he tried to jerk his arm back on instinct. His eyes flew to where the needle had been imbedded under his skin and he watched in horror she began to inject a clear liquid into his blood stream. As she withdrew the needle and loosened her hold, Bart yanked his arm back, left hand flying to cover the upper part of his right arm where the needle had been inserted.

"What was that?" he asked, his eyes narrowing as he focused his gaze on Cyclops.

"Be calm, little human," she answered forcefully, turning her back to clean off the needle – Bart couldn't help but notice how _long_ the nozzle looked now that he could properly see it, "The liquid was laced with microscopic sensors so we could study how our tests affected your body. No harm will come from them."

Bart frowned, rubbing his aching arm, "What tests?"

"First," Mucus said, coming up from behind him, "We will test your speed. Then your restoration abilities, and from there we will monitor your reactions, pain resistance, and brainwaves. We will then calculate how much food you will need to regain your strength." Mucus paused, suddenly turning his eyes on Bart, "How long has it been since last you consumed nutrition?"

Bart shrugged. He didn't care, and wasn't planning on being very cooperative with Mucus or Cyclops – or _anyone_ for that matter. He didn't trust them. So if he could find any way to set them back, he was going to – if only for a while, he was going to make things as hard as he possibly could for them, no matter how insignificant it seemed.

Mucus's face didn't change as he flicked a look a Cyclops, "If we are to accurately run any of our tests, we will need him to be operating at full capacity."

Cyclops nodded before walking to the opposite side of the room and up to one of the machines. Wordlessly she pressed a button, typing in a quick code and then opening a small latch. Bart watched the small square machine produce three small tablets, and he eyed Cyclops as she palmed them and then moved to him. She held the tablets to him expectantly, and reluctantly he picked them up – they were small, flat and round. About the size of a button.

"Swallow them – they contain a full meal's worth of nutrition and calories." Mucus ordered. Bart would have refused, but Cyclops caught the look and quickly reached up to a button on her visor. Bart felt his collar start to whir and suddenly his muscles locked up. He tried to move, but his joints were fixed.

"The collar can directly connect with the sensors," Mucus explained when he saw confusion cross Bart's immobile face, "The sensors double as a shock system. They can either deliver a painful electric shock or paralyze your muscles by latching onto the nervous system. If you do not consume the tablets we will be forced to have a more direct method of feeding you developed, which will not be desirable for you. Blink twice if you understand."

Anger lit his mind, but Bart blinked anyway, his body unlocking as he regained control. Without saying a word he stomached the tablets, his empty stomach setting to work on them the moment he swallowed.

"Good." Mucus observed before saying in a more authoritative voice, "Get onto the treadmill."

Bart looked carefully around the room, his eyes following Mucus's pointed finger until he saw a small rectangular box with tall glass walls around it. He knew what a treadmill was, and could see sleek machine that slightly resembled a treadmill. Mucus's staff poked into his back, digging into his skin and forcing Bart forward until he was being shoved through the glass entrance and standing inside of see-through cage.

He didn't want the two aliens to see his unease as robotic arms started to press electrodes into his skin from inside the container treadmill area, so he wordlessly stared ahead, concentrating on maintain a straight face – he was just an experiment here. A toy to be played with and forgotten. He was a science project.

Bart caught the movement of Cyclops going to tap her visor again, and he was prepared to feel his muscles seize, but the feeling never came. Instead, an entirely different sensation overtook him as the collar's lights powered down and he felt sheer energy gripp him. The world started to spin, time fell off its axis, and the need to _move_, to _run,_ attacked him viciously. He could hardly contain himself, and he felt far away from everything else as his muscles started to tremble and his brain raced to keep up with how _fast_ his thoughts were suddenly striking him. It was inhumane, it was amazing – but he was _trapped in a box_ – almost too slowly, the treadmill started to move and Bart felt relief flood him – _finally_. How long had he been just _standing_ there? Hours? Weeks? _Days?_

The treadmill slowly gained speed, almost sluggishly accelerating until it even came close to matching his pace – he'd never been so alive, except for his few days in the wild. Bart felt the nature of the speed envelope him, cradle him as he pushed himself faster – he was somehow carefree, worry and regret evaporating as he moved, his feet pounding as he went – nothing mattered at that instant, and he was _happy_, as crazy as that sounded. Wind twirled around him, making way for him as he unloaded all of his rage and frustration into his footfalls. He was alive, energized with his newfound power – how could his collar have contained all of _this_? All of the _energy _that was built up inside of him? And now that it was unleashed, he never wanted it restricted again. He could run forever and ever, and he would be happy, he'd be just fine. He liked the way his heart thumped and his legs pumped, his body a machine that moved with grace and speed – how had he lived his whole life apart from this? And underneath it all, he could feel a connection building, a force that he couldn't quite understand touching him as he ran, propelling him, encouraging him to go faster.

As soon as it had come, it was gone – the treadmill started to slow down, and Bart frowned as he returned to a listless pace, his collar starting to turn on. He felt the speed in him collapse, caged again – he was a bird who's wings were clipped once more. However, they'd unintentionally lit a fire inside of him, one that he'd nurture and care for – he wasn't simply going to make things difficult. He was Bart Allen, the grandson of the great Barry Allen, cousin the famous Wally West, and son to Don – the greatest speedsters who'd ever lived. He'd escaped the camp, he'd faced the wild, he was staring Death in the face and he was alive – he was a legend, like Doctor had said. He'd spurred hope in the souls of the Camp – he wasn't going to just make things hard for the Reach, he would escape the Labs. Bart wasn't going to be a problem, he was going to be a threat.

* * *

**Author's Note: **My goodness, all of you guys have reviewed so thoughtfully, so generously. You have truly made my day – It really does bring a smile to my face to see how wonderful you guys are to me, and how much you seem to like this story. I hope you guys continue to love this, and I just wanted to send a special shout-out to Guest and xxNeonShadowxx, who left some really heartwarming reviews. I can't express how much your words mean to me. Thank you. SO. MUCH.


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